Tell Me Three Things(41)

This breakfast must be a last hurrah before we have to hit the road. Makes sense that my dad would take advantage of his final chance to use a Viking range and fancy-ass pans and organic pressed coconut oil in a perfectly measured spray. I should run upstairs and wash my hands with that delicate, monogrammed soap that still has a price tag on it. Learn what a hundred dollars gets you in the soap world.

“Here, these will help settle your stomach.” My dad places a stack of perfect circles on a plate and puts them in front of me. They smell surprising, not like the thing itself but like a representation of the thing. The fragrant-candle version of a pancake. “Just tell me you didn’t drive last night.”

“Of course not. Dri did,” I say.

“Dri?”

“I have friends, Dad. Don’t be so surprised. Did you think that I wouldn’t talk to anyone ever again?” I don’t know why I’m being mean, but I can’t help it. For once, my words are one step ahead of my mind, not the other way around.

“No, I just…I’m happy for you, that’s all. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

I laugh—not a laugh, exactly, more like a nasty neigh. No, no it hasn’t. Nothing has been easy for a long, long time. Even last night, my first attempt at fun since we moved, ended with a sociopathic blonde calling me a skank.

“I guess I deserve that,” my dad says.

“So what now? Are we leaving?”

“What? No. Why would you say that?” he asks, and his surprise seems genuine. Did he not realize the entire city of Los Angeles heard his fight with Rachel? That the other night he basically admitted that this whole thing has been a huge mistake? Doesn’t he know that I’ve spent the entire week psychologically readying myself for another departure?

“Your fight with her.”

“It was just an argument, Jess. Not the end of the world.”

“But she said—”

“I sometimes forget that you’re just a teenager. But I remember that—how everything feels bigger or, I don’t know, somehow just more when you’re your age.”

“Don’t you of all people dare be condescending,” I say. There’s a sharpness to my tone, and of course, I’m a hypocrite, accusing him of talking down to me while acting like a stereotypical teenager. All snark and pouts.

But screw him.

Seriously.

Screw. Him.

My dad sighs, as if I am impossible, as if I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“She said ‘leave and don’t come back.’ I heard her.”

“Stop saying ‘she’ and ‘her.’ Rachel. Her name is Rachel. And people say stupid things when they’re angry.”

“And people do stupid things when they’re grieving, like get married and move across the country and not give a shit about their kid.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I’m yelling now. I don’t know when my control slipped. Because here it is. The anger delivered, whole and solid. Hot and unwieldy. Placental.

“Do you want to leave? Is that what you’re saying?” he asks.

I think of SN, of Dri and Agnes, of Ethan with his electric-blue guitar and his dismissive “hey.” No, I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to feel like this either. Like an interloper in someone else’s home. If I do throw up today, which is more likely than not at this point, I don’t want to have to worry about soiling Rachel’s bathroom. I don’t want to feel in constant danger of eviction.

No, none of that is important. What do I really want? I want to punch my dad in the face—connect fist to nose, crush, crunch, make him bleed. Kick him hard and watch him bend over and squeal and scream the words “I’m sorry.”

This feeling is new. This anger. I’ve always found a way around the pain, have never burrowed straight through like this.

My dad doesn’t look delicate right now, not like the other night, not like most of the last few years. Why have I been the one wearing kid gloves all this time?

“I’m not saying anything. Forget it, Dad. What did you want to talk about?” My fingers are pulled into actual fists. I can trust myself not to throw an actual punch, right?

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing. How school is. Just checking in. I know I’ve been busy. And the other night, I didn’t even ask about your day. I felt bad about that.”

“Busy? I can count the number of conversations we’ve had since we’ve moved.” The rage stays clean and pure and red, like last night’s drinks. Does he have any idea what my life has been like? Funny that he checks in only when I’ve finally started to find my footing.

Too little, too late.

“I just. Wow. I didn’t know—”

“Know what, Dad? That moving here has been hard for me? Are you serious right now?”

“Let’s—”

“Let’s what? Talk about this later? Sure, great idea.” I push away the plate, resist the urge to throw it in my father’s face, and storm out of the room.

“Trouble in paradise?” Theo asks, because of course he is coming down the stairs as I’m marching up, two at a time. I’m shaking with anger, vibrating with the pulse of it. My mouth tastes bitter, full of bile. I imagine switching targets, connecting my fist to Theo’s jaw. Ruining his pretty, pretty face.